


On Ginger Tea and Other Remedies

by CommonNonsense



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2016-12-01
Packaged: 2018-09-03 16:04:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8720125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommonNonsense/pseuds/CommonNonsense
Summary: Cowboys don't get sick.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Just a tooth-rottingly sweet fic for someone on Tumblr. :D

“I keep tellin’ you,” McCree says, pushing away the cup of tea being waved in his face, “that I ain’t sick. It’ll pass.”

It’s a bold-faced lie. His head pounds, he’s simultaneously on fire and freezing, every muscle in his body aches–including ones he wasn’t previously aware of–and he hasn’t been able to keep down any food since dinner last night. He feels like death warmed over–but Hanzo doesn’t need to know just how bad it is.

He tries to sit up off the mound of pillows behind him, but his muscles cry out in protest and he collapses back onto the bed. He groans, frustrated by his body’s lack of cooperation.

Hanzo’s gaze remains on his tablet in one hand, reading through an email as he pushes the tea back at McCree with the other hand. “You have been complaining since yesterday that you feel unwell,” he replies. “I messaged Dr. Ziegler with a list of your complaints and she agrees that it is probably the flu. Which means you very well are sick and will not leave this bed until you are better.”

Admittedly, the very thought of getting out of bed makes McCree want to die. Still, though. He has an image to maintain, and being laid up by a little virus does not contribute to the dashing cowboy persona.

“Darlin’, seriously,” he starts, and his voice cracks with the rasp of someone who is more sick than they want to let on. Hanzo finally looks at him with one eyebrow raised just a fraction, and pushes the tea at him again.

“You are a very good liar on most days,” he says, “but not today. Drink your tea and rest, Jesse.”

McCree groans and takes the tea, but stubbornly does not drink it. He holds it between his hands, letting the warmth bleed from the cup into his palms.

“You don’t gotta do this, you know,” he says to the cup. “I’m a grown man. I can take care of myself.”

“Perhaps. But that does not mean you should.” Hanzo finally sets aside his tablet, resting it on McCree’s bedside table as though it belongs there. The sight fills McCree with pleased warmth, although it is quickly tamped down by the roil of his stomach.

“C’mon. You gotta have work to do or something.”

“I have requested to be taken off the mission roster for the next few days, at least until the worst of your illness has passed. The rest of it can be completed when I have time.”

“You’ll get sick.”

“I received an immunobooster from Dr. Ziegler this morning. I am not worried. I am more concerned about you getting up and spreading it to the rest of the team.”

“I’m–”

“Jesse McCree, stop arguing with me and _drink your tea_.”

Startled, McCree makes a show of bringing the cup to his lips and taking a sip. The tea is something green, grassy and lightly spicy on his tongue. His stomach gives a protesting jolt at the first swallow, but then settles, and he takes another drink.

Hanzo perches on the edge of the bed. “Better?” he asks. “The ginger should help settle your stomach.”

“A little,” McCree grudgingly admits.

“Good.” Hanzo settles a hand on McCree’s knee, stroking mindless lines over the blanket. “It’s important to take in as many fluids as possible. Make sure to finish the cup.”

McCree sighs exaggeratedly, but lifts the cup again. “You’re almost as bad as _Mamá_ ,” he says.

“Why? Because I want to see your health improve?”

“If that’s what you call it. She used to make me drink tea, too, and got mad if I got outta bed for longer than it took to take a leak. Like maybe she could scare the sick away if she was stern enough.”

Hanzo chuckles and pats his knee. “It is all in good intention,” he says.

Finally giving in to the demands of his sick body, McCree sinks back into the pillow, tea clutched like a lifeline between both hands. He watches as Hanzo gets to his feet and starts bustling about the room, picking up laundry and straightening items on the desk. McCree lets this go on for a few minutes, then asks, in a voice raspier than he expects, “Why are you doing this?”

Hanzo pauses in folding up one of McCree’s _serapes_. “Doing what?”

“Takin’ care of me like this. You really don’t gotta hover. Or clean my room, for that matter.”

“I spend enough time in here that I might as well tidy for my own sake,” Hanzo says matter-of-factly, neatly folding the _serape_ and stacking it on the drawer with four others in varying colors. McCree wonders when Hanzo folded the other four. “And of course I wish to take care of you. I’m given to understand that that’s what one does for their boyfriends.”

McCree feels himself flush with something more than the fever. “You still don’t gotta. It ain’t that bad.”

“But I want to. Why are you so insistent that I go?”

McCree finds he doesn’t have an answer that doesn’t boil down to some form of “I’m embarrassed by being doted upon,” so he downs the rest of his tea.

“Besides,” Hanzo continues, gathering up a pile of laundry. He dumps it in the corner before he moves to stand back beside McCree’s bed. “You repeatedly promise that you will ‘be good’ to me. And I wish to do the same.”

McCree tries to set aside his empty cup, but it slips from his weak fingers and clatters to the floor. He stares at it for a long moment, groans, and flops down on the bed. “Hell, darlin’, I’m so sick,” he whines before burying his face in the pillow.

Hanzo chuckles softly. McCree feels fingertips gently brush his hair from his sweaty brow. Cool lips press a kiss to his temple. “I know,” Hanzo murmurs. “Just get some rest, Jesse. I will be here when you wake.”

McCree manages a hum in response. His hand bumps Hanzo’s as he reaches for the blanket to tug over his shoulder. He falls into a feverish, but serene, sleep to the soothing sensation of Hanzo’s fingers combing through his hair.


End file.
